


Visions

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Johnlock - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock spoilers, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A (likely) short story about Sherlock's trip through hell during The Lying Detective."The sky shifted, crested, like a reflection of the moon on rippling water. Clouds frothed and rolled in unfathomable patterns, morphing into eyes, lips, noses. Sherlock braced himself against the wall, trembling, blood still dripping down his forearm and crimsoning the headlines of the morning newspaper. He squinted up at the grey of the sky. Curious. The sun was wavering like the wax in a lava lamp."**DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE SPOILERS!!!**





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ughhhh I fucking hated watching TLD because it was soooo sad. Especially the bit where Sherlock, you know, tried to kill himself. This is my attempt to pay tribute to his efforts, because in reality, he really did try so hard for John. And that shows a very gullible and vulnerable side of him. This is one of my darker fics, so far my other Johnlock ones have been pretty tame. This is relatively new territory for me. Hope you enjoy, and please be notified that THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SERIES 4!!!!!!!!! 
> 
> (your comments make me happy <3))

The sky shifted, crested, like a reflection of the moon on rippling water. Clouds frothed and rolled in unfathomable patterns, morphing into eyes, lips, noses. Sherlock braced himself against the wall, trembling, blood still dripping down his forearm and crimsoning the headlines of the morning newspaper. He squinted up at the grey of the sky. Curious. The sun was wavering like the wax in a lava lamp. 

For a couple of agonizing minutes, everything was upside down. Then came...bliss. Glossy photographs skritched across the floor as Sherlock slid to the ground. Ah, bliss. Bliss, bliss, bliss. Even the word tasted good in his mind. The floorboards writhed like snakes as his vision melted in the dim light of the London afternoon. Why didn’t everyone do this? Then maybe people wouldn’t be so  _ unhappy  _ all the damn time. A brief, distorted image of John’s grief-stricken face passed by and Sherlock fought to keep down the pressure behind his eyes. His heart, made a thousand times more unpredictable by the drugs, simmered with rage and pain.

As if to quell this surge of emotions, the dull edge of a wave of chemical pleasure crashed down onto Sherlock’s head, scattering his thoughts like pigeons on a crowded sidewalk. Bliss cracked open his skull and poured nothingness inside, skewing his memories into cartoons, and stabbing all of his lines of reasoning to bits. His limbs gave way and he sank completely down, twitching so intensely that he kicked the coffee table violently to the side, an array of pictures and files adding to the debris on the floor. He moaned aloud. If someone had been in that room while he was in the depths of hell, the depths of hell he created for himself, than they might have said that the moan sounded a bit like the word “John.”

In a single, shimmering instant, he saw the outlines of John’s expression very clearly. He looked happy. Content. The scene focused and Sherlock blinked in astonishment as he watched John walk into the room, sit down, and begin to read. At his side was the aluminum crutch. His hair was...different. It was such a lucid moment that Sherlock actually called out to him, trying to slide his body across the floor in his direction. But with every forward movement John only grew further and further away. “No,” Sherlock groaned into the hardwood floor, a fevered gleam in his eye. “No…” He collapsed again and convulsed. He would not lose John again, he  _ would not. _

Suddenly, the image crackled and dissolved, until Sherlock was back on the red carpet of the restaurant, feeling John’s hands tightening around his throat. And Sherlock couldn’t stand  _ that.  _ So Sherlock let go. His mind was gone.

Sometime during the fevered sleep that followed, he heard a clear, precise voice. A woman’s. It was saying such mean things, such  _ horrid  _ things…. _ This isn’t part of the plan Sherlock, you know it’s not part of the plan...You like it, don’t you, naughty boy, you fucking love it… Yeah _ , the voice paused, as if considering its next words with care,  _ I know you’re doing this for John Watson, because everything’s always about him, but it’s also about you… finally getting your fix… under the guise of saving someone else… how perfectly hypocritical of you… don’t tell me _ , the voice lowered, hissed, became menacing almost,  _ you don’t fucking love this.  _

When he awoke it was nighttime. There was a plate of dinner, a cardboard box of letters, and an ice cold pot of tea waiting for him on the desk. Well. He looked bitterly out the window. It was going to be a long night. 

Most of the time, Sherlock wouldn’t sleep. He was so haunted by his visions that he would just lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling, thinking, trying to regain some of his mental agility. He would lie on the couch and feel his body dying. Feel his organs failing. Flesh and blood. Shrivelling. Hesitating. Stuttering more and more with every breath.

All the same, Sherlock would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that there was some comfort in getting back to his old ways. The most recent trip had been too much, though. Sherlock privately admitted this to himself as he drained the pot of tea down the sink. It wasn’t part of the plan to  _ die _ , after all. Just get really close to it. So close that he could reach out and touch it. Although...he took a look around the interior of the flat, walls papered with Culverton Smith’s leering mug, some rank and rotting smell coming from the inside of the oven… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He fixed himself a new cup of tea and sat in his usual place, staring at John’s armchair. 

It all came back so quickly. 

He remembered...he remembered the laughably horrible stag night, he remembered John’s incredulous expression during their first case, he remembered all the happiness and the pain and the  _ togetherness.   _ He remembered and he didn’t want to remember so he lit a cigarette and had that instead of the tea. 

But his attempt at numbness was all in vain.

The woman’s mocking voice jabbed at him.  _ Look at you, posh boy Sherlock Holmes, fallen into the hole, never to climb out again! You can’t do anything.  _ His eyes flickered down to his trembling hands.  _ You can’t read a newspaper, you can’t make tea.  _ He hit himself lightly on the ear, as if to clear water from it. Gritting his teeth, he looked at his creased, sweaty face in the mirror that hung over the fireplace. “I am Sherlock Holmes, I  _ am _ ,” he whispered in a clenched and vehement sort of way. Sherlock swept past his chair and to the shelf, where his violin was covered in dust from underuse. Taking the thing down from its perch, he began tuning it, a deep cut forming between his eyes as he concentrated on plucking the strings. He put it on his shoulder and lifted the bow, in that smooth, haughty motion that he had learned to perfect when he was just a little boy, sawing away in his bedroom. 

A single note rang out into the silence, unsteady and unsure. Surely he could still play.

Gathering up his frayed wits, he took a deep breath and hazarded a brief scale. But it was too late. The music did not sound like music, it sounded like the vague motions of a beginner, the honking of a goose. It was not the delicate and pristine sound of the past. Sherlock hated himself in that moment. He let the violin fall from his shoulder. He looked at his reflection in the glass. 

And he steeled himself for the weeks to come. Because this was not about him. He swung the violin against the wall and watched with satisfaction as the handle came splintering off, the strings shrieking in agony as they snapped and coiled. 

  
This was about John. 


End file.
